Our dwelling place, the light above, a ribbon of warm light in the old corners of the house that are somehow found and seen again, against all the odds, after so many years of neglect.
The centuries-old light that mysteriously returns in summer-as it always does. The warmth on your back, your hands unloosened, the deeply veined green shade cast by tall trees, the high windows in the elegant streets around London House, the library windows jarred open, the women becoming more dreamy.
The old medieval light, your exquisite, starred heart, the darkness that picks out the light and gives it shape.
'History in stone and wood and glass.'
This knowledge of the window is something that eludes you and these distances another kind of beauty in the soul. The death of the heart is not so unlike the life of the heart, though it is seldom commented upon.
This shadow that grazes the light, that snicks it, is like the last word you spoke, the filigree of absence.
2 comments:
thank you for noticing these photos.
My, my, such politeness and formality after all these years!
:-)))
This series is really beautiful. Thanks for sharing them, Roxana. Hope all is well? (it's okay, you don't have to answer).
Take care,
b.
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